John Nance - Headwind

“Yes,” she answered.

“Then let’s start working those telephones and see if someone stayed behind.”

“If,” the woman replied, “we could find one, I think he might be persuaded to sign the warrant at home so we can get on with the arrest, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“We don’t have much time,” Stuart said, leaning back with his hands behind his head and looking at each of them in turn. “Let’s remember at all times that the basic mission here is to arrest President Harris and start the legal process against him. That’s what our client expects, and what he is paying dearly to have happen.”

Patrick Nolan, the firm’s partner in Dublin, was nodding. “When you put us on standby, Stuart, I didn’t expect this affair would end up here.”

“Nor did I,” Stuart replied. “I did think it possible that Harris might find a way to wiggle out of the net in Athens, but I did not expect him to get away from Italy.”

“But, weren’t you going to snatch him away right there in Rome?” Nolan asked.

“You mean put him on that jet we chartered to Lisbon?” Stuart replied.

Nolan nodded, watching the senior partner smile and shake his head no.

“That was never a serious possibility, that jet. It was window dressing for President Miraflores. The Italians weren’t about to let me do it, and I wasn’t about to let it happen, either. Too many damaging consequences in terms of my friendships in official Italy. But then an unexpected opportunity presented itself to more or less herd Harris to London, and I am rather surprised that it didn’t work.”

“Why didn’t it?” Nolan asked.

“Because John Harris is a very intelligent man, Paddy. He’s somehow gathered a cadre of dedicated people around him,” he laughed and shook his head, “including a planeload of geriatric American war veterans who were going to fight me personally if necessary, probably hand-to-hand. Their devotion to Harris was quite impressive.”

There were puzzled expressions around the room, and Stuart waved them away. “When this job is all done and we’re all up in the hills closing down Johnnie Fox’s pub one evening, I’ll tell you the story.” He sat forward and put his large hands on the table. “Okay. Down to business, and I need the clear thinking of each and every one of you. There’s no rank in this room, understood? We’re a team, and we need to think like a team, because John Harris will be on the ground here momentarily and the clock is ticking. You can say anything to me without fear of breaching protocol.” He paused and smiled for effect. “Well, almost anything!”

Stuart could see them visibly relax as they laughed.

“Now, Harris has every reason to simply refuel here in Dublin and get back in the air, but he doesn’t have the range on that jet to make it to the States in one jump. That means if they try to fly on, he’s got to stop for fuel in either Iceland or Canada, and we’ve got people in both locales ready to move. Of course, I’d rather not test the Canadians’ resolve, considering they’ve got to sleep with the thirty-thousand-pound gorilla to the south, and the gorilla wants John Harris home free.”

“Sir William,” one of the women said.

“Stuart,” he corrected.

“Yes, sir… ah, Stuart. I was going to say, there’s no way we’re going to get a warrant issued in time if they just refuel and go on.”

“I understand, Orla. But his pilots are tired, and I don’t think they’re going to want to take him anywhere until they’ve had some rest. And, Mr. Reinhart will hire a local solicitor who will tell him the same thing you’ve just told me regarding the impossibility of finding a district judge quickly. Harris will calculate quite correctly that we’re incapable of clapping the cuffs on him until sometime tomorrow, and therefore he has a few hours of grace. So here’s the challenge: how many ways can John Harris leave Ireland other than on that jet, and how do we prevent it without doing something illegal?”

Patrick Nolan looked at the others and pulled a legal pad closer to him to consult his notes before meeting Stuart’s gaze. “Well, I’m fairly certain he can’t escape by rail.”

There was more laughter around the table as Patrick continued. “We know they’ve made reservations at a hotel, which means, Stuart, that you’re right about their wanting rest. But our big worry is the commercial airlines.”

Stuart nodded knowingly. “I thought of that. He could simply nick a ticket on Aer Lingus and fly to New York direct.”

“As early as seven in the morning,” one of the men agreed. “But, no one has booked a reservation for him on any airline with direct service to the States, at least as of two hours ago. That doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

“I know the chairman of Aer Lingus personally,” Stuart replied. “Perhaps a call from me concerning the legal and political liability they could be playing with if they provided passage for Harris would be worthwhile. But I’ll need the phone numbers quickly.”

Notes were scribbled around the table as Nolan raised a finger. “There’s one more airline with direct Stateside service, Stuart.”

“You mean Delta?”

Patrick nodded.

“They have an Irish manager, do they not?”

Glances were exchanged around the table before Patrick looked back. “I… would guess so.”

“And they need the government’s sanction to fly airplanes in Ireland. Certificates and licenses. If the government were white-hot angry with them for something, it could make their lives fairly difficult, I would think.”

One of the men had already left the table and was pulling out his cell phone as Campbell gestured to him to wait. “Bill, we’ll need the manager’s name, home number, and any personal information you can gather.”

“What can you say to him?” Nolan asked.

Stuart Campbell grinned. “Nothing, Paddy, since you’re going to call him for me.”

“Very well, Stuart, but why me, if I may ask?”

“Well, you’re Irish, the man we want to persuade is Irish, and I’m a bleeding British knight. Who’s got the better chance?”

Patrick nodded. “Understood.”

“Outer marker, altitude checks, no flags,” Alastair reported as Craig Dayton clicked off the Boeing 737’s autopilot and eased the yoke forward to capture the instrument landing system glide path in a steady descent.

“Intercepting glide slope. Flaps twenty-five, landing gear down, Before Landing Checklist,” Craig ordered.

“Roger,” Alastair echoed. “Flaps coming to twenty-five, and… landing gear down.” He positioned the landing gear lever to the down position and pulled the laminated checklist into his lap to read through the items, verifying Craig’s response to each one.

“Flaps to go, Craig.”

“Roger. Field in sight, flaps thirty,” Craig reported as the approach lights loomed large four miles ahead of the aircraft.

“Flaps are coming to thirty. Flaps are thirty. Gear and flaps rechecked down, and we’re cleared to land. You’re on speed, marker plus five, ground speed one hundred twenty-four knots.”

The jetliner crossed the threshold of Runway 10 fifty feet above the boundary as Craig flared, stopping the descent with the tires a few inches above the surface before letting the bird gently settle to the concrete with a squeal and a stream of rubber smoke unseen in the darkness.

Craig’s hand shot forward to gather the speed brake handle and try to pull it back before the automatic deployment system did the job, a race he never won, but which provided a human backup to the system.